divya

[కుమార్]

Beedaa didn’t listen.

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‎The moment Divya whispered “no… don’t do that,” her voice small and cracking, he simply exhaled through his nose — a low, patient sound — and kept going.
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‎His thick fingers didn’t stop at the pallu this time. They moved with steady, practiced purpose: tugging the saree free from her waist petticoat knot, letting the heavy maroon fabric slide down her hips in a slow cascade.
‎The pleats unraveled completely, pooling at her feet like spilled blood on the tiled floor. Divya’s hands flew to his wrists again — weaker now, more trembling than forceful — but he caught both her wrists in one large palm, pinning them gently but firmly above her head against the cool wall.
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‎“Shhh,” he murmured against her ear, voice gravel-rough and low. “Bas thodi der… mat roko.”
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‎She shook her head — tears slipping silently — but her body didn’t fight as hard.
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‎Beedaa released her wrists only to slide both hands down her sides — rough palms scbanging over blouse, over bare midriff, hooking into the petticoat drawstring. One sharp tug and it loosened. The white cotton fell away, joining the saree in a crumpled heap just inside the door.
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‎Divya gasped — half sob, half something else — as cool air hit her skin. She stood there in only her black bra and panties, arms instinctively crossing over her chest, cheeks flaming, eyes squeezed shut.
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‎Beedaa stepped back half a pace — just enough to look at her fully in the dim bathroom light filtering through the small frosted window. His dark gaze traveled slow: from her tear-streaked face, down the swell of her breasts straining the thin bra cups, over the soft curve of her belly, the flare of her hips, the trembling of her thighs.
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‎Then he moved again.
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‎He pulled his faded black vest over his head in one motion — broad, hairy chest exposed, old green tattoos faded but stark against weathered skin, scars crisscrossing like a map of a hard life. The lungi followed — untied with a casual flick of his fingers, dropping to the floor beside her clothes. He wore nothing underneath. His cock hung heavy, already half-hard from the kisses and the sight of her, thick veins standing out against dark skin.
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‎Two minutes.
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‎That’s all it took.
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‎Now their clothes lay in a tangled pile just outside the bathroom door — saree, petticoat, blouse hooks half-undone, bra strap dangling loose from where he’d unclasped it in one smooth pull, his vest and lungi thrown carelessly on top.
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‎Inside, Divya’s back was pressed to the wall again. Beedaa’s body caged hers — one thick forearm braced above her head, the other hand cupping her jaw, thumb stroking her lower lip.
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‎He didn’t speak anymore. Just looked into her glassy eyes, waiting for the last thread of her no to snap.
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‎Divya’s breathing was ragged. Her crossed arms had fallen slowly to her sides. Nipples tight and dark against the black lace bra cups. A faint sheen of sweat glistened between her breasts. Between her thighs — warm, slick betrayal.
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‎She didn’t say no again.
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‎She didn’t say anything.
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‎Just stared up at him — 60 years old, scarred, rough, everything her traditional world had taught her to fear — and let her head tip back against the tiles in silent, trembling surrender.
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‎Beedaa leaned in. Kissed her once more — slow this time, almost gentle. His free hand slid down her body: over collarbone, between breasts, across belly, lower… fingers hooking into the waistband of her panties.
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‎He paused there — giving her one last chance to stop him.
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‎She didn’t.
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‎The fabric slid down her thighs.